Prelude to a Hit
by and her magical cat Roscoe
Summary: Bill & Starlet Wild & Las Vegas. When Johnny's away, a showgirl will play. Set PreSeries. Entry in the Black Velvet Seascapes challenge. Contains lotsa Topless Showgirls, Marabou Boas, and Bill. What's better than that? Rated for implied adult situations.
1. Full House

**Prelude to a Hit**

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or situations created for TGAH; I am borrowing them purely for entertainment purposes and am making no profit from their use. Thank you to Stephen J. Cannell, the cast, producers, writers, directors, and crew for giving us this wonderful, timeless show and the characters that bring it to life. _

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**Author's Note: **This story takes place prior to the series, in August 1980. It's in answer to the "Seascapes on Black Velvet" challenge posted at "Culpalicious" (the world's greatest web site and the only living Robert Culp fan page) and an attempt to answer two questions. 1 – What was Bill doing in Starlet's apartment (as referenced in _The Hit Car_) and 2 – Why _shouldn't _Bill have a "pulling on the boots" scene ala James T. Kirk? Both questions are addressed here. The answer to the second question happens to be, because it's Bill and he's not the world's luckiest guy. Sexy, yes. Lucky, no. Read on…

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**CHAPTER 1: Full House**

It was the big closing number and the dinner theatre at the Desert Dunes Casino was, literally, jumping.

Ice cubes rattled in short old-fashioned glasses and tall tumblers on every table as some three dozen long-legged showgirls on silver-tipped pumps clattered up the mirrored staircase at the center of the stage. Their white feathered skirts swirled and their breasts bobbed beguilingly behind silver spangled pasties.

Down on the stage, so as not to distract from the main event, half as many earnest looking male dancers in silver and white striped tights struck attentive poses, their oiled torsos heaving.

At one end of the stage, three young women in gray and white costumes gazed up in wonder. They were supposed to be mice. It was plain from the matching white bibs and gloves and the little round ears perched on their heads. The rodent illusion was challenged by their bare breasts, jouncing in syncopated time to their excited bounces.

The mouse-girls were an interesting counterpoint to the three young women in fright wigs and black and red merry widows on the other end of the sweeping semi-circle of the stage. Their breasts bounced just as fetchingly, but they were jumping in dramatic irritation.

No matter the motivation, no matter the species, the important thing, the very most important thing as the show's director had shouted just that afternoon as he tossed the trailing end of his cerise satin scarf over his shoulder, was that every pair of bare breasts on the stage had to be bouncing at the end of the big finale. After all, that's what the people paid for when they came to see, "Oh! Sinderella."

The cast was doing their best to oblige. Even the dancers who, out of insecurity or a burning desire to gain an edge in the competitive world of the Las Vegas showgirl, had decided to enhance their natural assets with silicone so firm that bouncing would take a 7.5 earthquake and hydraulic lifters, were managing to get a generous sway from their miracles of modern elective medicine.

The brass section blared a cascading riff as halfway up the staircase a towering brunette in a black sequined gown (severely cut except for the complete absence of material at the front of the bodice) stamped her foot, not incidentally causing her ample breasts to bounce dramatically.

The horns hit a tremulous high note, cymbals clashed, and a cloudbank of dry ice fog tumbled down the staircase as the silver chased doors at the top parted and a young man with a tiny coronet stepped out. His ermine cape swirled around his ankles as he turned back to the door, holding out his hand.

And Starlet Wild stepped out into the spotlight. Her golden mane of hair gleamed. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled. Her perfect teeth shone. And her perfect breasts bounced behind her transparent "glass" bustier.

The audience lining the tables at the Desert Dunes show bar erupted in wild applause as the band hit a final piercing crescendo and four air cannons blew a cyclone of sparkling silver confetti over the stage with a blast that rattled glasses a hundred feet away on the keno tables.

Starlet and her dazzling smile beamed down at the exultant dancers, the frantic orchestra, and the blissful patrons of the Desert Dunes dinner show.

On a banquette seat of red velveteen at the back of the cavernous room, Bill Maxwell sat alone at a table for two, staring up at Starlet with the rest of the yahoos and forty-dollar-a-day tourists and wondered if she was as bored as she looked.

If she was, she was the only one in the room. Everyone in the audience, every man anyway, had all the focus of a dog who's just seen his first soup bone. Maxwell himself was shifting in his seat as he tested the give in the slacks of his new gray suit.

A paunchy businessman with a three-hair comb-over at the next table leaned over and shouted above the din. Maxwell assumed he was shouting. The man's lips were moving and his face was turning red.

Maxwell rolled his eyes and reached up to tug the wadded piece of bar napkin from his ear.

"-ing she wouldn't forget, right?" the man finished, flashing a devious grin Maxwell was willing to bet the man's wife back in Biloxi or Boise, or wherever salesmen in plaid slacks came from, hadn't seen since six months before their wedding.

"Right," he said, opting for the path of least insistence. Predictably, the Plaid Slacks King of Boise wasn't deterred.

He nodded at the wadded napkin scrap Maxwell had tossed on the tablecloth.

"Sensitive ears?" he shouted over the dying applause.

"Sensitive stomach," Maxwell corrected.

That bought him a few seconds of distraction to watch the heavy brocade drape gliding across the stage to conclude Starlet's second curtain call.

Mr. Plaid Slacks was back on his game a moment later. A traveling salesman had to be adaptable Maxwell reasoned wearily. And persistent.

Kinda like a Fed, he thought, right down to the company car.

"I hear her boyfriend's a mobster," Plaid Slacks said.

"Gangster," Maxwell said, reaching for his drink. Somehow most of his scotch had vanished, he thought with a twinge of irritation. Probably evaporated by the shock waves from the air cannons.

"Gangsters and mobsters are different?" said Plaid Slacks. "How so?"

"Mobsters got rules," Maxwell said. He downed the last long swallow from his drink, enjoying the feeling as the warmth spread out from his belly.

"Mobster's got somebody to answer to. They got standards," he went on easing back against the plush velveteen bench. "But your basic gangster, well, he's just a dime store hood with steady pay."

"No kidding," Plaid Slacks said slowly and, Maxwell noticed, from slightly farther away on the banquette.

"You, uh, sure know a lot about criminals, pal," Plaid Slacks said. "You must be a cop or something, right?"

"Nah," Maxwell said "Just watch a lotta Dragnet."

The grinning crowd, most in clothes so loud Maxwell was surprised they hadn't drowned out the band, was surging toward the doors.

He turned the empty glass in his hand, staring at the play of the brightening house lights on the melting ice. There was persistence and then there was good sense, Maxwell thought. It was time to admit the meeting wasn't going to happen tonight. He'd rolled the dice and crapped out.

Might as well go find the bar, he reasoned. The night didn't have to be a total loss.

He leaned forward to plant his empty glass on the table and a shadow fell across his hand.

He blinked up into the serene face of the best-dressed gorilla he'd ever seen outside of the Carson show.

"William Maxwell?" the gorilla rumbled.

Maxwell nodded.

"Miss Wild will see you in her dressing room," the gorilla said in a way that made it sound like a strong suggestion.

Maxwell planted his hands on the table and levered himself to his feet. He moved fast. Sometimes a quick movement would catch the bulkier ones off guard. It was always worth knowing if the 250-pound slab of beef at your elbow was the kind that needed thirty seconds and a note from his Mommy to adjust to a surprise.

This guy wasn't that kind. His bland expression didn't flicker, but one massive hand was inside his jacket at holster height almost before Maxwell saw it move.

The Plaid Slacks King of Boise missed the gesture, but not the words.

"You're going to meet Starlet Wild?" he said, his chins bobbing with excitement.

"Looks that way," Maxwell said, turning his palms out in the universal sign for "save your ammo, pal." The gorilla gave a barely perceptible shrug and let his hand fall to his side. He turned and started down the aisle toward a plain door set in the wall.

"So tell me, Mister," Plaid Slacks said as Maxwell paused to tug out his wallet. "Which one are you? Mobster or gangster?"

Maxwell stared down at the little man with his shiny scalp and shining eyes. The guy was in Plaid Slacks heaven. Vegas, half-naked showgirls, Starlet Wild, and now underworld connections. He'd be the hero of the Elks Club Lodge for this story.

"Fedster," Maxwell said, straightening the hang of his suit jacket, "One of J. Edgar's finest."

He pulled three rumpled dollar bills from his wallet and tossed them on the tablecloth by his empty glass.

"Tell the folks back home," he said. "We're on the case."

He turned and started after the retreating back of the tuxedo-clad hood. Time to earn his keep, he thought.

His job was to make the world a safer place for Girl Scouts, puppy dogs, and salesmen in plaid slacks. And one way to do that might be through a Vegas showgirl named Starlet Wild.

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- _continued- _

"Prelude to a Hit"


	2. Stage Door

**CHAPTER 2: Stage Door**

Maxwell's guide stopped outside a red door with a shining silver star painted in the center. Two showgirls in white feathered headdresses and very little else brushed past in the narrow hallway.

A trailing streamer of white marabou tickled Maxwell's cheek. He flicked at his skin and looked after the retreating dancers. One had long, chestnut brown hair that cascaded in a curling mass down her bare back.

She looked over her shoulder. Her aster blue eyes sparkled as they traced down his frame and back up again. She paused and half-turned.

"That one's taken, honey," she said in a throaty purr. "But I'm not. How about you and me-"

"Beat it, Lana," the goon rumbled as he raised one huge fist to the door and gave a sharp rap.

"Mr. Maxwell to see Ms. Wild," he called through the door.

The dark-haired beauty shrugged. Maxwell focused all his powers of concentration to keep from noticing the affect the gesture had on her generously proportioned breasts. He noticed anyway.

"I'll be in the bar," the dancer mouthed. She turned away as her friend tugged at her elbow. Maxwell heard a whisper and a low laugh as they turned the corner at the end of the hall, but the sound was drowned out by a high-pitched voice from behind the door.

"Well, bring him in, Tino," the voice shouted. "Johnny don't pay you guys to stand around in the hall."

Maxwell had an idea that was exactly what Johnny paid guys like Tino for about seventy-five percent of the time. That is, when they weren't being paid to play the bongos on some guy's face.

Tino didn't seem to think the argument was worth making. He pushed open the red door and stepped back.

Time to go into his own song and dance, Maxwell thought as he slipped into the dressing room.

The first thing Maxwell noticed was the pink. Everything was pink. From the wallpaper on the walls to the shag carpet on the floor to the pink shade on the lamp that stood redundantly in front of the brightly lit makeup mirror.

The second thing he noticed, once his eyes had time to adjust to the onslaught, was the middle-aged woman sitting at the edge of the pink chaise lounge. Her graying hair was bound up in a loose knot at the back of her neck and her head was bent over a trailing piece of shimmering silver fabric.

She glanced up as Maxwell moved to the center of the room. Her eyes followed the same path the showgirl's had a few moments earlier. The straight pins held between her lips shifted as the woman's mouth moved in a slow smile.

Maxwell cleared his throat and held out his hand.

"William Maxwell," he said. "Delighted to meet you."

The seamstress raised one hand to take the pins from between her lips. She held the other and out and took his in a firm grip.

"Same here, Maxwell," she said, inclining her head to the huge bouquet of white roses spilling from their vase on the dressing table. "Nice flowers."

He heard the door close behind him and knew without looking that Tino was still inside the room.

"Yeah, they're real beautiful," the high-pitched voice chimed in. "How'd you know roses was my favorite?"

Maxwell turned toward the voice and found it was coming from behind a screen in the corner of the room.

"I just looked for something as beautiful as you are, Starlet" Maxwell said to the screen.

He heard a stifled cough from the chaise lounge but didn't turn around.

"Aw, that's so sweet!" Starlet called back. "I'll be right out, Mr. Maxwell. You just get comfortable."

Maxwell glanced around. The only seats in the room were a wicker stool with a fluffy pink cushion in front of the dressing table and the chaise lounge. The seamstress gathered her sliver fabric and slid sideways as he turned.

He found himself chewing on his upper lip as he nodded and settled down on the cushion beside her. This routine was always tougher in front of an audience, and from the seamstress's broad smile, he had a feeling she'd be sticking around for the full show. He needed to clear the room if he was going to give Starlet his best pitch for truth, justice and the American way.

There was a rustle of silky fabric and Starlet Wild stepped from behind the screen, making her own convincing argument for the American way.

Her shining gold hair fell in loose waves to her shoulders, spilling over the robin's egg blue of her satin robe. It matched her wide, blue eyes. They grew wider still as Maxwell stood to greet her. He was beginning to think it was a Vegas thing as her glance made a calculating sweep along his frame. Starlet's perfectly curved lips quirked in a smile.

"You must be Mr. Maxwell," she said, stepping toward him and holding out one beautifully manicured hand. "Charmed, I'm sure."

"Call me Bill," he said, giving her his best and brightest smile as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "And the pleasure's mine. I enjoyed your show."

"Oh, that," she said rolling her eyes as she turned away. She sat down on the wicker stool and picked up a paddle-shaped hairbrush. "You know, that show would be a lot better if they'd just listen to me. I got lotsa suggestions, but do they care?"

"What kind of suggestions?" Maxwell asked attentively, watching as Starlet pulled the brush through her hair.

"Well, lettin' me sing, for starters," she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. She put down her brush.

"Don't you think the star of a musical revue oughta get to sing?" she said.

"Well," he said slowly.

"Of course, she should," Starlet agreed. "And dance. But no, I gotta just stand there like a lump."

She snatched up the brush and began to pull it through her hair with new vigor.

"I'm gonna get Johnny to talk to 'em again," she said. "They gotta listen to him. After all, he's the producer, ain't he?"

She raised her voice and Maxwell was unpleasantly surprised to learn it got even higher when she was upset.

"Tino," she said. "Why don't you do something useful, 'stead of taking up half the room. Go find that director. Tell him Johnny's gonna come see him first thing when he gets back from LA. Johnny'll show those clowns who's boss around here."

"Ms. Wild," Tino rumbled, "I'm supposed to stay around when you've got company."

"Yeah?" Starlet said, slapping her brush down on the dresser and turning to glare at Tino. "Well, there's a lotta things you're supposed to do. And one of 'em is listen to me when I tell you do something."

"But, Ms. Wild-"

"Get outta here already, Tino, and don't come back. I don't need you anymore tonight."

"I've got to drive you to your apartment, Ms. Wild," Tino said evenly.

Starlet looked momentarily dismayed, but she rallied quickly. She looked at Maxwell.

"You got a car, don't you, Bill?"

"Well, sure," Maxwell said, shooting a glance at Tino. The hood did not look happy.

"Ms. Wild, Johnny won't like it-"

"You let me worry about what Johnny likes," Starlet said. "Now get outta here. You too, Maggie. Finish that tomorrow."

Maxwell glanced at the seamstress on the lounge. Her mocha brown eyes were taking it all in. She raised an eyebrow, then bundled the silver fabric in her hands into the quilted bag at her feet.

"Don't forget the photographer for People Magazine is coming in the morning, Starlet," she said. She looked up at Maxwell as she bent to gather up her bag.

"And Johnny said he'd pick you up to take you to the shoot," she said, watching him closely. "You might want to be ready."

"Everybody's tellin' me what to do today!"

Starlet jumped up from the dressing table and stomped back to the screen.

"I'm getting' dressed," she said. "If everybody but Bill Maxwell ain't outta here in thirty seconds, there's gonna be trouble."

Maxwell kept his place in the middle of the room as Tino reluctantly pulled open the door and shuffled into the hallway. Maggie stood and moved to follow him. The sounds of rustling fabric from behind the screen almost drowned out her hushed words as she passed.

"Don't stay for breakfast," Maggie murmurred. "What Johnny will do to you is not worth scrambled eggs."

The door had closed behind her before Maxwell could come up with a reply. No one had to tell him Johnny "The Dancer" Damanti had a temper like a snake with indigestion.

Temper or no, guys like Johnny held little fear for Bill Maxwell. They were all just dime store hoods underneath. Besides, he'd say his piece to Starlet, get the nod or the brush off, and be on his way back to LA before Johnny the Dancer had his last cocktail in whatever disco he was polluting tonight.

Scrambled eggs didn't enter into this scenario.

He was still telling himself that two hours later when Starlet strolled out of the bedroom of her penthouse apartment in her second satin robe of the evening.

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- _continued- _

"Prelude to a Hit"


	3. All Access Pass

**CHAPTER 3: All Access Pass**

This one was peach colored, Maxwell noticed. He also noticed how it complemented her creamy complexion. And that she was creamy every place that he could see.

He could see quite a lot. The neck of the robe was parted, making a long "v" shape that pointed invitingly downward. Meanwhile, the hem of the robe skimmed her thighs, moving with a soft rustle that created an invitation of another kind.

"You finished with your drink, Bill?" Starlet asked, moving to the bar.

The gentle swish of her hips under the peach satin drew his eyes like a magnet. He swallowed and turned toward the plate glass window. The sparkling lights of the Vegas strip stretched out for a mile on either side. It was a beautiful sight. But it wasn't distracting enough.

"Uh, thanks, sweetheart," he said. "I'd better hit the road. You've got a big day tomorrow with that photo shoot."

"Oh, have another drink, honey," she said over the clink of glasses and the rattle of ice cubes. "We're grown ups. Another Dubonnet?"

"Yeah, uh, you got anything that ain't quite so sweet?"

"Um… Amaretto?"

"Dubonnet's fine," he said, clenching his jaw to stop the grimace.

Starlet's taste in alcohol, like her taste in decorating, tended toward the sickly sweet. Still, he had to admit, the Dubonnet packed a neat little punch for wine that tasted like watered down cough syrup.

And, he thought, at least her apartment was mercifully un-pink, although the gold-leaf trimmed Louis XIV-style furniture wasn't a big improvement. Its thick paint looked like vanilla icing. He was getting a tooth ache just being in the same room with it.

She was at his elbow before he heard her step on the thick carpet. He glanced down as she handed him the glass and looked away again quickly. The peach robe had opened still further, showing a rounded curve of breast.

He'd seen both breasts in all their round and curvy glory just a few hours before, but there was something about seeing them barely covered by a thin scrap of satin and just a few inches away…

He stared out the window and took a deep pull from his glass of Dubonnet.

"So People Magazine," he said briskly. "That's a big deal, huh? The show must be a real hit."

"Bigger than Buddy Hackett and Florence Henderson put together!" Starlet said. The ice in her glass rattled as she took a long sip. "But Johnny says they're only coming caus'a the lawsuit."

Maxwell frowned, trying hard to get the thought of "Buddy Hackett and Florence Henderson put together" out of his mind. In desperation he glanced down at Starlet's robe. It wiped out one image, but set off an already familiar line of thought that traced the v-shaped opening of Starlet's satin robe to…

He stared back out the window.

"Lawsuit?" he said briskly. "You mean the Disney thing?"

"Yeah," Starlet said. "They don't own the story, ya know. That's what Johnny's lawyer says. And, anyway, we changed stuff."

"Well, sure you did," Maxwell said before he could stop himself. "You changed the 'C' to an 'S'. It's totally different."

"Right!" Starlet said. "And, you know, other stuff, too. Like the mice. They're not girls in the Disney version."

Maxwell blinked.

"Everyone's sayin' it's really caus'a the posters," Starlet went on. "That's what they're mad about."

"The ones that say, 'Disney Does Vegas'?" Maxwell said carefully. "You, uh, didn't clear that with 'em then?"

"Well, we woulda," Starlet said. "If we'd known they was gonna sue."

Maxwell inhaled deeply. Time to can the chit chat, he thought, the night wasn't getting any younger and he neither was he. He took another long pull from his drink and set the glass down carefully on a coaster shaped like a grinning sun.

"Starlet," he said as he turned back to the window, "About what I said earlier, in the car. About working with the FBI."

"Hmm?"

He glanced down. She was rolling the rim of her glass absently across her lower lip. He followed her downward gaze and realized with a start that she was staring at the reflection of his slacks in the plate glass window.

He reached for the sliding glass door and tugged at it.

"This open?" he said, fumbling with the latch.

"You wanna go outside?" Starlet said, a little breathlessly. "That sounds like fun. Here, let me."

She reached past him, turning as she leaned over. Her robe slid apart as she brushed against his suit jacket. He looked away, but not before catching a glimpse of rosy pink.

He stepped back quickly, pulling at his tie. It suddenly felt much too snug.

"Oh, are you hot?" Starlet murmurred. "Why don't you take off your jacket?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Maybe I'd better just-"

"Got it!" she said as the door slid back along its track. "Come on, you'll like it outside."

A she stepped through the door, the gentle breeze from the desert fluttered the hem of her robe. Maxwell realized, with very little sense of surprise, that Starlet didn't have a scrap on under the peach satin.

Against all his better judgment, or what little remained, he thought wryly, he followed her out onto the balcony.

"Now, what did you want to talk about, Bill?" Starlet said as she turned to face him. The robe was parted to her waist now, displaying her round little belly button and her flat little belly.

"Well, Starlet," he said carefully, dragging his gaze away from creamy skin to meet her eyes. "Like I said, we been after your boyfriend for a while now."

"The FBI," Starlet said and ran the tip of her pink tongue across her upper lip.

"Right…" Maxwell said, watching the path of her tongue as it traced back…

He turned toward the Vegas skyline with grim determination.

"We could really use your help," he said. "You have information-"

"So you got a gun?" Starlet said.

"What?"

He looked down in surprise and saw her take a step toward him.

"Starlet-" he began, but she reached out for the lapel of his jacket before he come up with anything more intelligent to say.

She pushed his jacket open to reveal the butt of his revolver, nestled in its leather shoulder holster.

"Oh," she said, tracing the curve of the stock with her finger. "It's bigger than Johnny's. And his is big."

He stared down at her open-mouthed. That's when she leaned up on her toes and kissed him.

He would have taken a step back, he told himself later. But the sliding glass door was in the way. Plus she took him by surprise.

And it was a surprise, the way her soft pink mouth opened against his. The way her little pink tongue darted between his lips. Then there was the way she pressed against him. And the way she gave a little whine deep in her throat as she pushed her hips against his. Not to mention the way she rocked forward and back. That surprised him so much he gasped and finally did try to step away.

His head collided with the glass door with a resounding thud. Starlet came down off her toes and gave him a little frown.

"Bill Maxwell," she said, taking a step back as he rubbed at the lump rising on the back of his head. "I'm startin' to think you really came up here to talk me into helping the FBI."

Maxwell let out a long breath

"Starlet, sweetheart," he said evenly, "I did."

She blinked.

"Oh," she said and bit her lip.

She stared at him for a long moment.

"Well, I'm not gonna," she said at last. "So how 'bout it. You wanna do it or not?"

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to answer. He was even reasonably sure of what was going to come out, although he had to admit there was a shred of doubt about as wide as the opening at the front of Starlet's robe.

But before he could speak, she stated her case.

She reached down and untied the belt at her waist. Then in a single movement, she opened the robe, slipped it from her shoulders, and let it fall to the ground.

She stood there on the balcony, with the lights of Las Vegas behind her. Naked and as ripely beautiful as it was possible to be.

And Bill Maxwell noticed as he stepped forward, her skin was just as creamy… everywhere.

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- _continued- _

"Prelude to a Hit"


	4. Curtain Call

**CHAPTER 4: Curtain Call**

Maxwell sat at the edge of Starlet's canopied bed and listened to the water running in the next room. The sound was making his head vibrate in brand new and deeply painful ways. Dubonnet, he decided, was the newest drink that he would never, never have again. The list was getting long.

He reached down, ignoring the throbbing behind his eyes as he leaned over, and twitched aside the rumpled mint-green coverlet that was spilling onto the floor.

There was one shoe. It was a start.

He was tugging it on and considering the pain involved in going down on his hands and knees to search for its mate when the water shut off and Starlet stepped into the room.

Ever since the balcony, she'd apparently decided even the robe was too much trouble. It was amazing, he considered, how true the phrase "too much of a good thing" could be.

"Why are you all dressed, baby?" she said. "You going so soon?"

"Soon?" he said and glanced toward the window. Hard desert light was streaming in onto the shag carpet. "Starlet, honey, we overslept. Won't Johnny be here any minute?"

"Oh, I can handle Johnny," she said, waving a hand at the door. "You just hang out here 'till I get home later and we'll have some fun. I got this new French Maid costume you're gonna love."

She tugged open the drawer of her bedside table and fished inside.

"Starlet, sweetheart," he said carefully. "That sounds great, but I didn't come here for fun."

She pulled a pack of gum out of the drawer and watched him as she peeled open the wrapper, pulled out a stick, and folded it into her mouth.

"I mean," he said quickly. "I did have fun. You were terrific, honey."

"Yeah," she said grinning as she smacked her gum. "You, too. I noticed your hands before. You sure know how to use 'em. Are you double-jointed?"

"Uh, yeah," he said blinking, "Thanks. Anyway, I gotta get back to LA and you gotta get to your photo shoot and-"

"Oh, that won't take long. I'll be back by lunchtime. You like Chinese food?"

"Starlet," he said slowly, pushing up from the edge of the bed. "You're not listening, honey. Try to follow me now. I can't stay."

"Oh," she said, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "Okay."

"Okay," he said. He started casting around on the floor. "You know, I can only find one shoe-"

"So when are you coming back? This weekend?"

He looked up in surprise. She was leaning against the bedside table, her arms folded across her chest. She was still frowning.

He considered his next words very carefully.

"Starlet," he said at last, "The truth is, I could never share you with Johnny. It'd tear me up. As much as I want to stay, believe me, it's better if I leave now. Right this minute."

She stared at him for a long moment. The only sound was the brisk snapping of her gum.

He was glad he hadn't heaved a sigh. A sigh would've been too much.

At last, just as he was beginning to wonder if she'd even heard him over the gum, she blinked.

"Bill Maxwell," she said slowly, uncrossing her arms and stepping toward him, "That was absolutely the most beautiful thing I ever heard. Take me with you."

"What?" he said intelligently.

And she gave a little jump and leapt into his arms.

He was standing there with his hands full of naked, wriggling showgirl when the doorbell rang.

"Starlet," a deep voice called from the hall. "Daddy's home. You ready to go, doll?"

Even then, he didn't start to feel the cold sweat on his back until he heard the key turning in the lock.

Johnny "The Dancer" Damanti might be a dime store hood, but he was a dime store hood who knew where his gun was, which was more than Bill "One Shoe" Maxwell could say.

"Starlet," he hissed, "Get down, sugar. I need a place to hide before your boyfriend walks in here."

"Don't worry," she whispered, her legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. "You can hide in the library."

He stared.

"You got a library?"

She jumped down to the floor and took his hand, pulling him toward a door in the wall opposite the bathroom.

He spotted his gun and holster on the vanity table and scooped it up as they passed. The shoe was nowhere to be seen.

Starlet pushed open the door, revealing her "library." This was apparently Starlet's inner sanctum. A fuzzy green bean bag chair occupied the center of the room. Surrounding it were waist-high stacks of Cosmopolitan Magazines, a rolling makeup cart full of nail polish and manicure gear, an open bag of Oreo cookies and six or seven thick paperback novels with long-haired, shirtless men on the cover.

"I'll get rid of Johnny and we can leave this dumb town and go to your place in LA," Starlet murmurred, then she paused.

"Well," she went on. "After the photo shoot. It is People Magazine, after all."

She stretched up to press a kiss to his lips and backed out the door. As it closed, Maxwell found himself staring at a matched pair of seascape paintings on black velvet on either side of the door.

It was then he realized, he was in hell.

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Maxwell shrugged into his shoulder holster as he listened to the sound of Starlet welcoming Johnny home. It was a very warm welcome. It sounded like it might go on for a while.

He was just beginning to consider whether he could actually sit in a bean bag chair and, if he did, whether he could get out again, when he realized the light illuminating the pair of black velvet paintings wasn't coming from the ceiling.

He turned and saw sunlight spilling out from behind heavy brocade drapes. Stepping carefully over the litter of magazines and gum wrappers, he moved to the drapes and twitched them aside.

The long window opened at the bottom. He craned his neck to peer out and almost groaned with relief. There was a ledge.

He had the window open and was already maneuvering one leg out when he heard Starlet's voice outside the door.

"All right, keep your pants on," she called. "No, seriously, Johnny, keep 'em on. I'll make you some eggs before we gotta leave for the shoot. I'll be there in a minute."

He was halfway out when the door opened and Starlet's head appeared. Her eyes went wide and then narrowed.

"Bill Maxwell, if you go out that window, we're through," she hissed.

Maxwell sighed.

"Starlet, honey," he said. "You wouldn't like my place. It's a dump. Not like this. All this gorgeous stuff you got here…"

His eyes flicked involuntarily to the velvet paintings and he looked away quickly.

"It'd never fit, sweetheart. I couldn't take you away from all this."

Starlet opened her mouth and for a long time after that day, Maxwell wondered what she had been about to say. It didn't matter in the end because at that instant Johnny's voice sounded from the bedroom behind her.

"What's going on, Starlet," he said, the sharp tone undercutting his casual words. "You're not hiding some guy in here are you, baby?"

Maxwell gave a her a little smile of regret and slipped out onto the ledge. Starlet stared after him for an long moment before she turned and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Don't be silly, Johnny," she said from the other side of the door. "What d'ya got there? Oh, hey, I been lookin' for that shoe."

Maxwell had the foresight to close the window behind him. When he heard Johnny's voice in the "library" a few seconds later, he was already rounding the edge of the building.

----------

On the drive back to LA, Maxwell had to admit, Vegas hadn't panned out. No dope on Johnny, no lever to break open his gang, and no reimbursement for the roses since he'd driven out on his own time.

Plus the evening he'd spent at "Oh! Sinderella" was 110 minutes of his life he'd never get back.

About the only thing he had to show for two day's work was a hangover that'd stop a buffalo. That and one less shoe.

Overall, he decided, Vegas had been a bust. Still, Starlet had been fun, in her own feather-brained way. So maybe you couldn't find her IQ with a searchlight. They had made a connection, he was sure. And you never knew about these things. Maybe sometime it would come in useful.

He had a good feeling about Starlet Wild. He had an idea he'd be hearing from her again. And maybe, just maybe, she'd make him proud.

--------------------

- end _- _

"Prelude to a Hit"

_Thanks for reading!_

and… roscoe


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